


Return, Revisit, Reunion

by reapersun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Mini-Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:50:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapersun/pseuds/reapersun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has been writing a new blog about holidays and travel in the UK but when he's asked to return to the Cross Keys, he wonders if a return visit would be a good idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return, Revisit, Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the moderators of the mini-bang for coordinating this fest! Many thanks also to my Britpicker persiflager, my beta whiskeydaisy, and of course my partner in this project reapersun who was a joy to work with. Thank you all! - orphan_account
> 
> Note: Fixed broken images~ -R

John stepped out of the taxi and into a lovely courtyard that was hardly recognisable as the same establishment where he and Sherlock had investigated the Baskerville case. Gone were any mentions of spectral hounds or horrors upon the moor; instead, white fairy lights twinkled in the trees of the courtyard in front of the newly renovated Cross Keys. For all that it was only just the first week of December, there had been an early snow, and the light dusting of white flakes made the scene all the more enchanting. The front door to the inn was bedecked with a large wreath and above it hung an enormous swag of greenery, while a hidden speaker played festive music.  Several brightly painted signboards announced various events, including  “Yuletide Pet Pictures Today!,”  “Vegan Holiday Dinner Chef Demo: Saturday!,”  and “Book Fair This Sunday!” It was almost postcard-perfect, an English village Christmas celebrating peace on earth and goodwill towards men.

For approximately the thousandth time, John asked himself whether the potential discomfort and awkwardness could possibly be worth a cheque, even a very large one.

The front door to the inn opened and Billy and Gary emerged to greet him, joined by a grey and white husky that barked a hello as well as a tiny Scottish terrier that yipped at John’s shins. Gary gave him a hearty clasp on the shoulder and a cheerful “Glad to have you back.” Billy added, “You’re looking well,” and, while the implication was clear, John was relieved that Billy didn’t specifically mention Sherlock’s demise.

The only thing more uncomfortable than the innuendo John had endured during his last visit would be the condolences and kind inquiries about how he’d managed since Sherlock’s death. Considering his present circumstances, such comments would be especially uncomfortable. He dropped to his knees to greet his canine hosts, who wouldn’t trouble him with such human complications.  

***

Eight weeks earlier, John had arrived at the Queen’s Larder to find that not only was Mike Stamford already seated at a small table in the corner, he had two pints already in front of him. “Ta, Mike,” John said as he took a seat, and then a sip of the Guinness his friend pushed in front of him.

“Saw you coming and you looked like you needed not to wait,” Mike answered. “Bea’s been after me to take her to that little place in Kingsbridge since you gave it that little write up. Good piece, but they all are.”

“Thanks. You should take her. That was one of the best trips so far, actually.”

“To tell the truth, you could make a romantic getaway to Milton Keynes sound like a good idea,” Mike said with complete sincerity.

“I don’t know about that, and with luck I’ll never have to make the attempt. Speaking of attempts, though, here’s what I wanted to show you. I could’ve forwarded it, but -- well, you’ll see. They want me to go in December.” John pulled up the email and passed his mobile to Mike.

As Mike read the proposal, John was reminded of one of his favourite things about Mike. In spite of - or maybe because of - all that had happened since the day he’d introduced John to Sherlock Holmes, Mike was always willing to talk about non-Sherlock-related topics. During the first months after Sherlock had died, Mike had been an invaluable source of support. He had let John cry and rage as much as he needed to, then later helped John figure out how to be John again without being half of a duo. Mike’s wife, Bea, had introduced John to a friend who worked for a small publisher, which led to John’s first pieces in English Excursion magazine. Since then, he’d done more work writing for small publications than he had doctoring, and he’d even started to get a trickle of revenue from adverts on his new blog.

When Mike’s eyebrows went up and he let out a low whistle, John knew he’d found the description of the location. Mike passed the phone back to John. “That’s something else, mate. A request from a Baroness? You should be proud.”

John shrugged. “Until a few years ago, she was just a mum running the Visit Eco-Britain campaign. Apparently, she’s done some good work in promoting green businesses, including the Cross Keys.”

“Which is now a pet-friendly, certified green, vegetarian resort and spa. They have certainly committed to rehabilitating themselves after that hound business. This is the hound place, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Hence your reticence to go, despite the patron and the very generous fee.”

John took a long drink of his beer. “That’s about the size of it, yes.”

“You should go. You’ve done an admirable job of seeking out all sorts of new things and new places, but you need to deal with the past stuff, too. When’s the last time you went to that little Italian place you loved?”

“Angelo’s? I haven’t. Not since Sherlock.” John couldn’t help the way his fists clenched with the mention of it. He hadn’t seen Angelo since the funeral, and couldn’t make himself go back to the restaurant despite Angelo’s heartfelt invitation. The memories were too painful, from the first time, when Angelo had mistaken their relationship, to the last time, not long before Sherlock’s death, when John had felt that the inexorable pull between himself and Sherlock had shifted beyond mere friendship and that the gravity of it would pull them inevitably into something more.

They had been waiting, John had thought at the time: waiting for the business with Moriarty to finish so they could let go and let themselves be drawn under by the staggering weight of what lay between them. So much anticipation, the delicious frisson of growing tension, and then -- everything was gone.

“John?” Mike gave him a concerned look. “You went away there for a moment. More woolgathering?”

“Enough to make my own bloody sheep.”

“It’s time,” Mike said gently. “Time to make those places be about more than Sherlock. Not to replace him: heaven knows you couldn’t do that even if you wanted to, but make new memories, too. You can’t see his shadow everywhere, John. Go. Have a good time. Think about him, but think about the other things, too. You’ll be better for it.”

***

John had accepted the job, as well as a few other writing assignments, and kept busy in between with shifts at a local clinic.  A week after his talk with Mike, John was walking home from a shift while thinking about how he was going to write up the prior weekend’s visit to a cheese rolling festival, when a long black car pulled up beside him. He had a strange sense of deja-vu as an attractive young woman in a black suit put down the window and beckoned him inside. For a moment he stood on the pavement, blinking, until he regained his composure and asked her why Mycroft couldn’t just have texted. She merely shook her head in response.

John complied, figuring he would have to meet Mycroft sooner or later, and he might as well get a lift out of it.  When John was let off in an empty underground garage, he stood at parade rest and waited for the surviving Holmes to make a suitable dramatic entrance.

A light flickered on in a corner.

“What’s this about, then?” John called out. “Always nice to be kidnapped by you, Mycroft, but as it’s poker night and I haven’t had supper, this had better be -”

A figure stepped from the shadows, too slender for Mycroft. John was about to demand that someone tell him what the fuck was going on when a voice, altogether too familiar and yet utterly impossible, spoke to him.

“John, you are in grave danger,” Sherlock had said, and John’s mind went blank.

He didn’t lose consciousness, but he’d evidently stood still and silent long enough to worry Sherlock, who made an uncharacteristic miscalculation in approaching him and received a split lip and a bloody nose for his trouble.

Mycroft had stepped in then, and managed to get across the salient point, which was that one of the regular blokes in John’s poker game wasn’t a regular bloke at all but an assassin affiliated with Moriarty’s organisation. John was resigned to the fact that he’d get a protective detail whether he wanted it or not, so he he grudgingly accepted it.

He did not accept Sherlock’s apology.

He was surprised and, if he were truthful, more than a bit disappointed that Sherlock hadn’t attempted to contact him again after that night. John thought he might try the first day, then maybe the second, but by the sixth day after their meeting he found himself repeatedly taking out the sleek little BlackBerry (“completely secure, John, should you need assistance”) Mycroft had given him and checking to see that it hadn’t rung without him noticing. The little mobile had remained silent and, when John realised he was starting to think of it as being “sulky,” he had to admit to himself how much he missed Sherlock.

He was spending that sixth evening trying to distract himself with takeaway Indian and a an action film on the telly when the BlackBerry’s message alert chimed.

_John. Would like to meet with you - SH_

His breath hitched when he read it, but he didn’t know how to respond. Would texting back immediately seem too eager? Was he actually too eager? He missed Sherlock, but what Sherlock had done wasn’t something John could just forget.

He ignored the text, as he did the two which followed:

_Mycroft can arrange it. Completely safe. - SH_

_You have every right not to accept my apologies - SH_

When he saw the fourth text -- _John, please. - SH_ \-- John flung the phone across the room where it landed softly, as if just to spite him, in his laundry basket, unharmed. It chimed again. Cursing, John switched off the television and stalked over to retrieve it from its soft landing spot.

_A car will be at Cross Ln and St. Dunstan’s Hill at 7pm. - SH_

He gave up and texted back: _Okay._

The car that arrived at seven took John to meet Sherlock in yet another underground lair. The bare room contained a single wooden table set up with two un-matched plastic chairs. There were two tiny paper cups of strong coffee and John couldn’t help but think this was one of Mycroft’s minions’ attempts at a Soviet-themed espresso bar.

Sherlock sat in one of the chairs. He looked thin, tired, and unhappy. Part of John was pleased at the schadenfreude of it, but another part of him wanted to offer comfort. Whatever Sherlock had been through, it had obviously been difficult.  He tried to tell himself that he had merely a doctor’s interest, but nothing more.

John sat down across from him.

Sherlock talked. John listened.

Sherlock explained in detail what he had done, how, and why, but his words were plain, almost solemn, and his speech lacked any of his usual flourishes. He let John interrupt with questions and he answered without any hint of impatience. It was the single most un-Sherlock thing John had ever seen him do and it made his chest ache impossibly more.

The logical side of John’s brain understood his story: the assassins, the network, the danger then, and the danger remaining. It made sense but John still felt too raw to process it all.

At the end, Sherlock said again, “I’m so sorry, John. I handled it badly.”

“Yeah, yeah, you did.”

“If there is anything I can do -” Sherlock looked at John, then back down into his cup.

“Actually, you can. Tell me this. If you had to do it over again, would you?”

Sherlock looked up and answered without hesitation. “I would take you with me.”

John felt something that had been stuck hard and fast in his chest crack and ease a bit. “Why didn’t you?”

Sherlock’s mouth curled up at one corner. “Would you believe it took me 5 months, 3 weeks, and 4 days to figure out how I could have?”

By that time, Sherlock had been in South America, too remote to even get a message back to Mycroft for weeks. “By the time I could, I thought it might be best to let you -”

“Let me move on? Christ, Sherlock --”

“I was wrong.” Sherlock said it plainly, without artifice. The look he gave John was as open as John had ever seen.

“I have to think about this,” John said.

He left his coffee untouched and the driver took him back to St. Dunstan’s-in-the-East. The church’s ruined shell still looked beautiful. It seemed to John a bit of an apt metaphor.

The next night, right before bed, he received another text.

_I couldn’t let myself hope. -SH_

John typed out,   _And look where that got us._

_Touche. - SH_

The following night, Sherlock sent another text. It was something about the reproductive habits of bees that made John stare at the mobile for ten minutes trying to figure out if this was some sort of subtle, yet bizarre, come-on, or just one of Sherlock’s arcane facts. He realised it was the latter when he got the follow-up text about hives. He was vaguely disappointed.

He responded, though, and when he finally looked up from the phone, it was two hours and fifty text messages later.

He dreamed of the buzzing of bees which became soft snores into his neck and, when he awoke alone and in silence, he felt incredibly lonely.

The next three nights were the same. Sherlock would text, John would respond, then they’d spend the evening going back and forth over whatever topic had popped into Sherlock’s mind. He wouldn’t say precisely where he was or what he was doing, but there was obviously a lot of waiting and boredom.

John admitted to himself that he missed Sherlock even if he hadn’t forgiven him entirely. Despite days spent at the surgery or at the library researching for his upcoming trip, he looked forward to the nightly texts most of all. Sherlock was still himself, sharp and bright, but there were changes. One evening he texted John questions about Llandudno, then observations about a tea shop in the Cotswolds, and finally a cutting remark about the proprietor of the Lanky Swineherd nearby, and John finally realised that Sherlock had not only read every one of his travel pieces, but had even visited a few.

John’s anger was dissipating, the dreams were becoming more vivid than simply snores, and now he was waking up each morning hard and wanting. When Sherlock’s business with the poker-playing assassin was settled, John would have to make a decision.

Three days before he left for Dartmoor, there was a text that sent a chill down his spine when he read it.

_Will be away a few days. - SH_

Then, a few seconds later,

_Come with me. - SH_

The phone rang. Sherlock spoke quickly and quietly. He had the last man to dispatch and then he’d be free to return, unfettered. “I won’t make the same mistake again. Come with me, John.”

“Sherlock, I have a job next weekend. I can’t just run off.”

“Could be dangerous,” Sherlock said, and John felt a shiver of anticipation and memory.

“Then be careful. No, wait.” John quickly corrected himself. “You won’t be. Just get it done, OK? Get it done and come back, and we’ll talk.”

The words sounded trite and insufficient, but he wasn’t quite ready to make himself say aloud what he was thinking, much less what he hadn’t yet been able to put into words.

“Soon,” Sherlock said, and rang off.

***

After the warm greeting from the Cross Keys innkeepers and assorted pets, John was shown to the largest suite. He was fairly sure he hadn’t got the finest room because of his past association with the inn, but more because he was here at the behest of a life peer who aimed to drive a lot of business towards the renovated Cross Keys and similar destinations.

“This one’s got a beautiful view of the courtyard,” Gary said. Billy added, “The ensuite has been redone too. The shower’s a water-saving model but you’d never notice! Plenty of water for two. Why, Gary and I --”

Gary coughed and Billy stopped abruptly, his face scarlet.

Gary gave John an apologetic shrug. “Make yourself at home. This is the only room on the hall and the only thing underneath’s our office, so if you need to burn the midnight oil to get your writing done, it won’t bother a soul.”

“Thanks, it’ll be great,” John said, so they left him to it. The room was high ceilinged and airy, the vast wardrobe held a fluffy white robe and matching slippers, and in the center of the bedroom was an enormous four-poster bed. The memory of his last visit, and the bed confusion then, made John smile ruefully. He wondered whether, if Sherlock were here now, they would be regretting the accommodations, or if the enormous bed might prove to be the tipping point this time.

With a shake of his head, he banished those thoughts in favour of concentrating on the task at hand. He unpacked his suitcase, set up his laptop, and checked that his messenger bag contained his kit of binoculars, map, notebook, and small camera. He slipped his own iPhone in the outer pocket but left the Mycroft-issued BlackBerry in his trouser pocket. He’d checked it at least a hundred times since he’d spoken with Sherlock, but it stayed frustratingly silent and dark. He tried to forget about it as he sat down to record his initial impressions of the renovated inn.

***

Saturday’s vegan chef demonstration had been more interesting than he’d expected, and John had enjoyed the group dinner afterwards. He’d relaxed with a brandy by the fire, with the inn’s two dogs by his feet, before going up to his room and the too-large bed.

John awoke to a crisp, sunny day and, when he peeked out the window, he could already see the booksellers setting up their tables in the courtyard below. He enjoyed the breakfast delivered to his room and particularly enjoyed the accompanying selection of local jams. After breakfast he headed down to the book fair. He chatted with a friendly young woman who had a nearby shop that specialized in children’s books and promised to visit, then bought a new mystery novel from a middle-aged couple whose booth was graced with a sleeping tabby.

He made his way around the courtyard to the last table, which was bare except for the plain printed “Booth 13” sign. It was piled with an intriguing number of antique volumes which John browsed at his leisure while the proprietor held a spirited discussion with a fifty-something woman. As John flipped through a volume of Churchill’s autobiography, the discussion between seller and would-be purchaser grew more heated. The seller was an old man in a shabby overcoat whose wiry white hair stuck out from under a floppy felt hat, and his handknit scarf covered almost all of his bearded face except for a pair of equally wiry white eyebrows. He might have seemed comical except for the vehemence with which he argued with the well-heeled woman who obviously wanted to pay far less than the old man would accept to part with the volume she had selected.

Not willing to let the altercation spoil his day, John turned away, but a few moments later felt a tug on the strap of his bag.

“If the young man wishes to buy the Churchill, I have a special price on the set,” the bookseller, stooped but spry enough to catch up with John, said in a wheedling tone.

“No thanks, mate.”

“Well, if sir is quite sure,” the old man said, then turned and hobbled off at a surprisingly quick pace.

John shook his head at the situation and went inside for tea.

***

After a lovely tea, John retired to his room for a shower. He then placed an order for supper to be delivered to his room, put on the fluffy white robe from the wardrobe, and sat down to write up his experiences so far.  At half five, there was a knock at the door.

Irritated that dinner was served so early but determined not to complain to the poor server, John answered the door with a smile that was not completely sincere. To his surprise, Billy and Gary were in the hallway, along with someone else mostly hidden behind Gary’s large frame.

“Sorry to bother you,” Billy said, “but this gentleman here says you left something at his table today.”

John shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said, just as Billy began tutting apologies for disturbing him.

“Check again.” The voice came from behind Gary, who grunted in frustration, and John thought he recognised the old bookseller who clearly was going above and beyond to make a sale.

“I really don’t think --” John began, but then he, as well as Gary and Billy, went silent.

The old man stood up straight. He was now bereft of eyebrows and beard, scarf and tattered coat, and, as he pulled off his hat, there was no mistaking him.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock said as he stepped between the two utterly stunned innkeepers into the doorway of John’s suite.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!” Gary exclaimed. “Sherlock Holmes as I -- well, as _he_ lives and breathes!”

“It’s a miracle!” squeaked Billy, looking pink-faced and utterly delighted.

“It’s about fucking time,” John said.

“An extremely appropriate choice of participle, I do hope.” Sherlock smiled.

“Come here, you bastard.” John pulled him close and Sherlock kicked the door closed behind them.

The surprised gasps out in the hall quickly turned to enthusiastic giggles, but John couldn’t make himself care.

***

Sherlock didn’t waste any time; by the time he heard the door latch click shut, Sherlock was toeing off socks and shoes and wriggling out of John’s grasp to hastily unbutton his shirt. A bit stunned by Sherlock’s enthusiasm, John crawled onto the bed, found a comfortable position, and leaned back to watch. Sherlock’s shirt was halfway off and his trousers were halfway down his hips before he noticed John sitting and staring.

“Enjoying the show?” Sherlock paused with his thumbs hooked in his waistband, and John couldn’t stop his gaze from following the thin trail of dark hair down to where the dark grey briefs still covered him.

John felt his cheeks redden but tried to manage an adequate response. “Yeah, actually,” he said, then looked up at Sherlock. “Can’t imagine you’re the type who’d be bothered that I like to watch a bit.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed and his expression shifted into something that John could only think of as cheerfully predatory.

“Oh, I’m not bothered by a good many things and, if you like to look, well -- I’m certainly happy to oblige.” Sherlock made short work of the rest of his clothes and, when he faced John, fully nude with one hand on a cocked hip, John knew Sherlock’s stance was calculated to show every plane, angle, curve, and line of his body to the best advantage.

John swallowed hard and gave himself permission to appreciate the view. Sherlock might be a tad thinner and there were a few small scars that were still pink and new, but he was undeniably gorgeous and very obviously aroused.

“You do realise, however, that while I’m certainly willing to have you look, I won’t be content with simply that,” Sherlock said in a tone that was vaguely menacing. As if to make good on the implied threat, he crawled onto the the bed beside John, moving with deliberate grace and seductive intent.

“Especially,” Sherlock added, “since you’re not the only one who likes to play voyeur.” Sherlock  leaned over to pull one end of the belt of John’s robe and, with one sharp tug, pulled it loose to let the robe fall open enough to bare John’s chest, abdomen and stiff cock. Sherlock made a satisfied sound as he traced a path with his fingertip along John’s jaw, over his throat, then slowly down his chest to his belly before stopping and pulling his hand away.

John let out a deep breath that sounded more like a moan even to his own ears.

“That’s very good.” Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s neck, then gave him a kiss that was quick but still had a flicker of tongue and the sting of teeth. He whispered, “You know this room is just above the hotel office. I wonder if our hosts are already calling everyone they know with the news of my untimely resurrection, or perhaps they’re just sitting down there quietly, waiting to find out just how much they can hear.”

“I think your resurrection is very timely.” John meant for it to be a light-hearted quip, but he didn’t think he’d managed it. If the whole situation wasn’t charged enough with Sherlock hard, naked, and thoroughly in control, the reminder that Billy and Gary could be -- and were almost certainly -- listening was enough to make John roll his hips in search of friction and let out a groan that sounded a good bit past interested and eager, and well on the way to desperate.  

Sherlock let out a breathy chuckle. “The bit of voyeur I had deduced, but I must admit the streak of exhibitionism I missed. It’s always something.”

Before John could even begin to form a response, Sherlock’s mouth was on his: open and demanding, wet and so very hot. It was not the precise, calculated sort of kiss John had fantasised about (and fantasised he had). It was harder, more forceful, and almost unbearably arousing. He grabbed for Sherlock’s bicep to pull him on top and, to John’s immense satisfaction, Sherlock moaned as they finally moved together, skin on skin. John indulged himself at last and slid his fingers into Sherlock’s curls as Sherlock shifted his assault from John’s lips and tongue to his neck, where he scraped with teeth before sucking hard.

“You’ll leave a mark.” John meant it as a warning, but Sherlock seemed to take it as a request, redoubling his efforts and repeating them as he worked his way lower. When he took John’s nipple into his mouth and sucked, John yelped and tugged at Sherlock’s hair. That only made Sherlock suck harder, which made John buck hard enough that the headboard slapped unmistakably against the wall. The noise had to have been audible to anyone who was the slightest bit interested in eavesdropping.

“We’re going to put a hole in the wall if we’re not careful,” John gasped.

“I don’t think they’ll complain.” Sherlock gave the other nipple the same attention as the first, sucking and biting the hardening peak almost roughly even as he kept the brush of his fingertips over John’s skin teasing and light.

Sherlock nipped his way lower, making John arch up for more contact. When his lips were just barely above the tip of John’s cock, he looked up at John from under his tousled fringe. His eyes were dark and his expression hungry.

“When I thought of this, I did usually imagine taking time to be much more thorough, but I find myself unable to keep to the script.”

“You thought about this?” John felt like something in his brain had short-circuited. “You had a _script_?”

Sherlock’s smile was wolfish. “A mental one, yes. Don’t your masturbation fantasies become more detailed and elaborate the more you have them?,” he said before he took John into his mouth. The short-circuit now felt more like total sensory overload. Between the realisation that Sherlock had thought of doing this while wanking -  repeatedly -  and the actual sensation of him living out those fantasies - hot, wet mouth taking him deep, tongue stroking up the shaft of his cock, making a slow swipe around the glans and flicking at the slit - John was only vaguely aware that he was a writhing, whimpering mess.

They could probably hear him downstairs. Hell, they could probably hear him on the other side of Devonshire. His hands clenched in the fabric of the robe that had fallen open around him as he tried in vain to last, to keep the heat and and suction of Sherlock’s lovely, lovely mouth on him as long as possible.

Sherlock clearly had a different goal; he alternated hard, deep sucks on John’s prick with filthy open-mouthed kisses just the way John liked, as if he had deduced John’s secret desires and, as John lost the battle to hold off his orgasm one even second longer, it seemed as though Sherlock had found every last one. Sherlocks swallowed around John as he shuddered and came, then backed off so John could watch the last pulses paint Sherlock’s plush bottom lip and his cheek.

“Oh, fuck, fucking _Christ_ , Sherlock,” he panted and, as Sherlock pushed himself up to kneel between John’s spread thighs, John almost felt as if he could come again just at the sight of Sherlock: slick with perspiration, hair tousled, skin flushed, prick hard and slick at the tip and -- oh holy hell, he was _wiping John’s come from his mouth with the back of his hand_ as if it was the most natural thing in the world.  

He was going to die, right here, in this bed. He closed his eyes because he couldn’t handle any more.

John realised he had said that out loud when Sherlock replied, “Do try to hold out just a little longer.”

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock wrap his hand around his own prick, slightly slick with what John had given him, and becoming slicker as Sherlock swiped his thumb over its end. “Watch me, John. Look what you do to me.”

He began to stroke himself unhurriedly, giving John a slow, teasing show of long fingers and long strokes. John couldn’t look away.

He wondered if the two hoteliers were still listening. Sherlock was being so quiet that, if they were, they’d have to use their imaginations to picture what Sherlock was doing to him, whether John was quiet now because his mouth was full of Sherlock’s cock or if he were pressing his face into a pillow and trying not to scream as Sherlock rogered him through the mattress. He wanted all of that, whether anyone was around to hear it or not.

“Everything,” John gasped. “I want everything,”

Sherlock sped up his strokes. “Knew you’d come around,” he said, and John couldn’t blame him for the unintentional pun or the smug satisfaction in the words because the look he was giving John said something else entirely. His eyes were bright and his expression was unabashedly, obviously affectionate. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was naked with emotion. “Missed you. Wanted this. Wanted _you_ ,” Sherlock said, even as John was watching, taking in the view of this gorgeous man, and saying, “Yes, come on, come on love, please, come for me, come for me….”

Only then did Sherlock’s pace falter and he braced himself on one hand as he half-collapsed against John, shuddering and panting John’s name as he came in hot splashes across John’s chest.

***

They were a mess. The bed was a mess, and the less said of the robe they’d used to clean themselves up with, the better. John had finally figured out just what it took to get Sherlock to fall quickly and thoroughly asleep, and was on the way there himself. He grabbed for a pillow and jostled the sleeping Sherlock in the process, eliciting a loud snore from the detective.

He wondered if Billy would ask him again, “Is yours a snorer?” Even if he did, John wouldn’t tell.

 

***


End file.
